


John's in a Bind

by RomancebyFaye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Light Bondage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Drug Use, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 19:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3622056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RomancebyFaye/pseuds/RomancebyFaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up in Sherlock's bed...tied up. Oh dear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John's in a Bind

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first venture into Johnlock. There is currently no sequel planned for this, though it ends with the possibility of one. This was more of my trying to get into Sherlock's head and see how he could view a physical relationship with John and still retain a canonical way of thinking. Hope you enjoy!

John's in a BInd

* * *

 

John slowly became aware of himself. His head swam in a fuzzy aftermath quite resembling coming to after anesthesia. He’d never forget that feeling. He’d experienced it too many times from work on his shoulder. Right now felt almost just like that…only not exactly. It was a gentler effect - no nausea or groggy headache - but still led his brain to the direction of being drugged into unconsciousness at some point.  
  
“Right on time.” Sherlock’s voice. Of course, John would recognize it anywhere, but the tell-tale mixture of arrogant certainty and aloofness was all his own.   
  
John blinked furiously, suddenly becoming aware of where he was located and the peculiar positioning of his body. Each second he was awake, his mind became more and more perceptive, as if whatever drugged him was quickly wearing off.   
  
“Of course. I know what I’m doing.” An answer to an unasked question. The tone was dismissive. “You  needn’t worry, I’ve quite an extensive knowledge on drugs, both recreational and not. Of course, you‘ve read my blog so you‘d know. In a few moments, it’ll be as if you never ingested my specialty cocktail.”   
  
“Why-” John was cut off before he could get more out of his mouth.  
  
“Please, John. Don’t be tedious.” Again with that patented dismissal tone.  
  
John’s heart began to work double time as the drug wore the rest of the way off; just as Sherlock had said it would. Granted John was quite used to trailing along thirty or forty steps behind Sherlock’s thinking, but he still couldn’t come to terms with why he was tied up in what was now obviously Sherlock’s bedroom. He was also naked. On his back. With his wrists bound above him and his feet below. Spread eagle.   
  
There wasn’t enough oxygen in the room.   
  
John’s mind may be free from the drug, but an unnamed terror entered in its absence. Vulnerable and exposed, he began to hyperventilate as he struggled against the bonds that held him in place. Nerves of steel and combat experience he may have, along with the ability to hit a mark at fifty paces with a rock steady hand. But Sherlock was not nearly so safe as any of those things. No amount of training could have stopped him from slipping into utter panic from finding himself in his current situation.  
  
“Stop that.”  
  
“Let me go Sherlock! Untie me you bastard!”  John struggled madly, his chest rising and falling at an alarming rate as blood roared in his ears.   
  
There wasn’t enough oxygen in the room.  
  
The bed dipped to the side as Sherlock rested his knee there, shifting John’s weight towards him as he covered his mouth with his own, forcing John to slow his breathing and preventing him from passing out.  
  
Slowly John calmed down, at least so far as he was able. The threat of hyperventilating gone, his brain spun with thoughts chasing each others tails.   
  
Why had Sherlock tied him in his bed? Why was he naked? Had Sherlock just kissed him, or was that purely a Sherlockian way to stop his frantic breathing?   
  
And as for the big question: For god’s sake, why had Sherlock drugged him? And what was about to happen now?  
  
“Amazing.” Sherlock was staring into John’s face, observing him like he was the greatest puzzle the man had ever encountered.   
  
And he was.   
  
John was the only human who Sherlock had ever found even the least bit intriguing in such a lasting time frame.   
  
Well, other than dead ones.   
  
All the tiny things John did, all his everyday actions and all his emotions were simply fascinating. He seemed so quaint and gentle, but there was a steel underneath that defied being bent in a shape other than one of his own choosing. He followed his own inner compass and no one could pull him from it. His nature allowed him an amazing amount of compatibility with Sherlock, an incomprehensible amount more than he had ever found in anyone else.    
  
And yet, lately John had pulled away from Sherlock in what he probably thought was an imperceptible degree. That simply wouldn’t do.  
  
Sherlock had been drawn to him since the moment he had laid eyes on him. Most people abandoned Sherlock after an initial meeting, but not John. No, in fact John had been able to move into Sherlock’s very world and live right alongside of him. And not just coexist either, but live. They had meshed into one perfect cohabitation and each had actually begun to thrive in their relationship. Johan had morphed from flat mate to friend to best friend to something that Sherlock found confusing and indefinable.   
  
It was the indefinable part that had driven Sherlock to his present action. The culmination of a creeping desire of Sherlock Holmes to see what exactly made his mouth water and his brain tingle - in a completely nonintellectual way - where John Watson was concerned.  
  
Somehow, John had managed to stir things in him that Sherlock didn’t care to have stirred. So Sherlock had filed those irritating things away in his mind palace to peruse at some other time. Only things had been slow this past week, and there weren’t any interesting mysteries to explore in order to alleviate his boredom. And so, in his latent meanderings of his mind, he had visited the part dedicated to John Watson and the things he had hidden away there; namely, the peculiar dynamic he had with John Watson.   
  
Sherlock didn’t like stimulation that wasn’t intellectual, or wasn’t observed for an intellectual purpose.   
  
No, indeed, he didn’t like it one bit. His thorough lack of context for the odd experiences with a certain army doctor needed more data in order to correctly be arranged in his palace. He decided a thorough experiment was needed. So he had drugged John, fully intending to do his experiment and have John wake up on the couch none the wiser.   
  
Only when John had finished his tea and gone unconscious, and Sherlock had begun his scrutiny of Dr. John Watson, he found he hadn’t been able to stop there.   
  
And so, here they were. John naked and tied and Sherlock standing over him wondering how best to go about learning what made John so…interesting.  
  
Still, the fear in John’s eyes plucked at something in the region of Sherlock’s chest and he found himself feeling something that others had described as…guilt perhaps?  
  
“Alright John, I can see all the questions in you face. I’ll take a moment to explain, though it IS tedious.”  
  
“Sherlock, just let me up and I’ll forget this ever happened.” A gloved finger came to rest over John’s lips, stopping whatever was to come next.  
  
Sherlock raised his eyebrows over those icy eyes, effectively calling John to silence.    
  
“Please, John. I’m speaking.” The finger moved away from John’s lips to trace the curve of his jaw, testing the day old stubble there. After a moment, he removed it to steeple his fingers under his chin as he spoke.  
  
“As I was saying, I’ve decided that an experiment is in order. For some reason, you’ve been occupying my mind lately. Despite your boring and plain appearance, I find myself imagining you in extremely graphic and stimulating positions. And none of these have any bearing on expanding my deduction skills or helping me solve difficult cases. Truly, it was merely a niggling at first, easily put aside when my mind was required elsewhere. Only, I’ve come back to it time and time again, if merely for…entertainment?”  
  
“Of course, I’ve seen you naked a few times, before we had that dull discussion about personal boundaries, but last week I was speaking to you only to realize you’d inconsiderately left the room. When I went to find you in the bath I was stopped outside the door by an unusual sound. After a moment, I realized it was obviously the sound of you masturbating. I sensed you’d not like it if I burst in on you at that moment, so I prepared to wait until you had finished.” Sherlock paused to look back into John’s face.   
  
Sherlock knew the answer. The answer to his question was plainly written there in the bright blush of John’s cheeks. There was no need to ask the question. At any other time, asking the question would only be for the benefit of others who were far too stupid and slow to follow his brilliant mind. But seeing John blushing underneath him, he found that he wanted to ask the question. He wanted to watch John squirm in embarrassment.   
  
He wanted to watch John.   
  
Sherlock leaned down close enough to feel the huff of breath escaping John’s lips. Close enough to watch his pupils dilate even further. Close enough to see the furrowed brow and feel the heave of John’s chest.  
  
He locked eyes with him and asked the question they both knew the answer to: “Why did you call my name when you reached orgasm, John?”  
  
John opened and closed him mouth, and even Sherlock couldn’t fathom what excuse he might be trying to concoct. John’s tongue darted out to lick his lips. It was ne of those mundane habits that Sherlock found so fascinating. He leaned down and followed suit, lightly licking into John’s slightly open mouth.  
  
All the intellectual stimulation in the world hadn’t prepared Sherlock for the rush that filled him when John gasped at the intrusion.   
  
A wave of desire hit Sherlock Holmes.   
  
He engulfed John’s mouth, sucking and licking. He filed away ever gasp, every tremble, every new sensation of teeth, lips, and tongues. Massive amounts of new information about John funneled into Sherlock’s brain as he focused all his attention on John’s mouth. He tested every surface his tongue could reach, things he had never yet had the opportunity to explore. The fact that John didn’t bite him or wrench his head away told Sherlock all he needed to know about the smaller mans acceptance of the kiss. Still, he mostly just lie there, which was well and good for Sherlock as it allowed him to proceed as he wished.   
  
It was fascinating, the sounds of all the flesh and saliva mingling. The vibrations of John’s half swallowed moans and intakes of breath could be felt differently depending on what part of his mouth Sherlock was in contact with.   
  
After a deep, lingering entwining of tongues, Sherlock released John’s lips and once again looked down at him. By no means had he discovered all he wanted to know about John’s mouth, but he wanted to gather more information. The way John’s eyes slowly drifted open and the tiny flash of his tongue darting out almost had Sherlock diving back to the slightly swollen lips.   
  
John’s eyes gathered their focus on Sherlock’s face as he looked down into them. There was a new expression there Sherlock had never seen. Like a flash, it scorched into his mind, filed away in a new place that Sherlock was sure to find in his next moment of idleness.  
  
Letting his eyes wander down John’s bound form, Sherlock paused at the swollen erection.   
  
Sherlock was a genius. By no means was he bound by the archaic forms of morality with which many viewed homosexuality or any deviation from so called ‘normal’ sexual activity. No, he wasn’t bound by them. In fact, he wasn’t really interested in sex, other than in the rare occasion it extended to cases or displaying his superior intellect in a scathing set down. The entire act of copulation seemed entirely boring, filled with a mindlessness that Sherlock abhorred.   
  
And then John Bloody Watson had sauntered into his life and firmly planted himself there. He had moved into Sherlock’s world and opened an aspect of Sherlock that he hadn’t realized he had the capacity to feel.  
  
As he sat, logging away every visible change to John’s facial muscles as the man recovered from the kiss. Sherlock saw the precise moment when John’s awareness expanded past the trance he had entered. His eyes widened and he turned to look up at Sherlock.  
  
“Sherlock, please,” John’s voice was desperate, begging. Yet another thing Sherlock hadn’t seen before. “Please untie me Sherlock. ”  
  
Sherlock looked into John’s eyes, shocked that he wasn’t entirely unaffected by the desperation there. He canted his head to the side and observed every tiny nuance of John’s pleading face.  
  
“No. I don’t think I will.” The tone was completely conversational. The gloved hand roaming down John’s naked torso was not.  
  
“God! Sherlock!” John was unable to hide his arousal, but still he struggled desperately against the bonds.   
  
Sherlock kept his gloved descent at its slow pace, fascinated by John’s muscles pulling taut, rippling and cording as they worked furiously.   
  
Sherlock had seen quite a few naked men of all shapes and sizes; some of those who were quite similar to John’s physique and some who he supposed were more aesthetically appealing. He had seen women of all shapes and sizes, too. But never had anyone - man or woman - appealed to him in anything more than an intellectual interest. He certainly would never have allowed one in his bed, much less forced them there and tied them in place.  
  
John was definitely a man: the breadth of his chest, the considerable strength that tested the bindings holding him, the angle of his jaw, the grunts and heavy gasps of a man in turmoil, the dusting of dark blonde chest hair that tapered down to run the center of his abdomen before meeting the hair that nestled above his hard cock all spoke to this. There wasn’t anything that echoed the female form in him.   
  
Sherlock stopped his hand when it reached the mass of blond pubic hair above a twitching cock. He combed through it gently, but he couldn’t feel the texture like he wanted. He pushed himself off of the bed. Starting with his gloves he began to disrobe.   
  
“Sherlock, listen to me.” John’s voice was strong,  begging for reason.  
  
Sherlock gripped the fingertips of his right glove, slowly tugging one at a time.  
  
“I’m not sure what you’re thinking. I never am really, but this isn’t right.”  
  
Sherlock dropped his glove on the floor and began to work on the fingertips of the other. His eyes saw everything, every tiny detail that none of John’s other lovers would have been able to see. The idea of anyone seeing John other than himself filled Sherlock with a surge of possessiveness. Something else new.  
  
“For god’s sake, I’m not one of your bloody thumbs in the fridge!” John was being extremely loud.   
  
The buttons on Sherlock’s dress shirt were steadily being released. John’s voice caught in his throat as more and more of Sherlock’s chest was bared. With a whisper of silk, the shirt sank to the floor, forgotten with the gloves.  
  
John swallowed audibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion, as Sherlock’s fingers reached the buckle on his belt.  
  
On a whisper, John begged one last time.  
  
“Please, Sherlock,” thready and trembling, his voice gave Sherlock another new experience to file away for later contemplation. “I can’t be one of your experiments. I-I can’t. Sherlock, I’m not like you. I won’t be able to just put this behind me. I can’t…I’ll be ruined.”  
  
“John,” Sherlock said as he unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers, “do shut up.”  
  
In one movement, Sherlock divested himself of the last of his clothes, making sure to catalogue every reaction that John unwittingly gave. The way his eyes lingered over Sherlock’s own erection.  
  
“You’re not an experiment, John.” Sherlock moved back to the bed. “Well, not one I plan on throwing in the bin.” Sherlock positioned himself between John’s legs, carefully scooting under him so his thighs supported John’s buttocks and upper thighs. “I’ve found the study of a lifetime. You should be flattered.”  
  
His tactile senses unhindered by clothing or gloves, Sherlock carded through the nest of  blonde curls he had abandoned before. The cock nestled in the curls gave an encouraging twitch.  
  
“Sherl-,” John was once again cut off.  
  
“Stop. Talking.” Sherlock glared into John’s eyes, his icy orbs freezing John in place. “Or I’ll fetch my riding crop.”   
  
Sherlock had said it in jest, but John gave a humorless laugh; dry, and nearly like a sob. Someone else might mistake it for fear, but not him, not Sherlock Holmes. Not with all the other involuntary tells John was screaming at him.  
  
Yes, John was full of surprises. Sherlock would never tire of him. He yearned to learn all there was to know about him. Tonight he planned to gather enough to keep him occupied for a while.  
  
Sherlock kept his eyes on John’s face as he wrapped his fingers around his prize. John jerked and gasped, but he didn’t say anything else.   
  
Shame. The riding crop would have to wait for another night.  
  
Satisfied that John wouldn’t disturb him, Sherlock set to gathering information.   
  
He pushed the cock in his hand up to John’s belly, carefully tracing the veins on the underside before pulling it towards himself to allow a better view of the top of the shaft. The hefty weight of it filled his hand, shorter than Sherlock’s own penis, but a bit thicker. The skin was fascinating there, the way it differed from the rest of John’s body; the silken feel of his foreskin, the velvet heat that hid beneath it, the way his seminal fluid gathered on the bulbous head before dribbling down its length.   
  
Enthralling and informative, he gathered up more and more information through his observations: How hard he should grip John’s cock. How fast or slow he should move his hand. How to glide the foreskin over the glans and how to rub his thumb on the very tip. What would happen if he pressed into the urethra just so, or if he glided down the shaft with only his knuckle, or if he only circled the tip with his fingers?   
  
Without speaking a word, John told him everything. Every gasp and pant, every strangled cry, every grind of teeth, every lick of lips, every ragged breath, and every twitch of muscle etched itself into Sherlock’s brain.   
  
So much information, so much stimulation. How had he not realized how enjoyable exploring his and John’s sexual nature would be? How fulfilling? And he hadn’t even scratched the surface. A limitless expanse opened up in Sherlock ever questing mind, so much information to be sought, tested, improved. On and on the potential stretched in Sherlock’s awareness, exciting him and titillating his roiling brain as well as his body.  
  
What else could John Watson show Sherlock Holmes?  
  
Under Sherlock’s ministrations, John was experiencing for the first time what it meant to have Sherlock’s full and unrivaled attention. He’d dared not entertain the fleeting desire he’d had to be the center of Sherlock’s focus. He had long denied the nagging thoughts of wanting to have Sherlock become engrossed in him the same way he became so absorbed in something the genius found interesting. John had put all his considerable willpower and discipline into turning his growing feelings away. One weak moment in the bath had led him here.   
  
And here John had gotten his deepest, darkest, secret wish. Being the absolute center of Sherlock Holmes’ attention was torturous, exhausting, mind wrecking, and emotionally draining.   
  
And unspeakably glorious.   
  
While Sherlock had been making a study of him, John had been inching closer and closer to ecstasy. John looked up at his tormento; Sherlock curls were in a riot around his head, his eyes were filled with a mad light completely different from the one John was used to seeing. God, those eyes sliced him open more than any scalpel would ever be able. He knew they were seeing everything, everything John wanted to hide and everything he wanted to show. He had to look away from the fevered madness there. Of their own volition, his eyes traveled down the pale expanse of Sherlock’s chest.   
  
Even though he hadn’t so much as touched Sherlock’s cock, it stood proud, lithe and haughty just like its owner. John was the reason for that. The knowledge was enough to push him that last increment into orgasm.  
  
Sherlock’s brain drank it all in. The sight of John losing all control of himself was something to behold. The way his thighs had begun to tremble uncontrollably towards the end. The way his cries had taken on a certain rhythm and tone. The way he had tossed his head back and forth, and the moment he had looked up into Sherlock’s eyes and down his body to his cock in the instant before he ejaculated.   
  
Sherlock continued his study, continuing to stroke John’s cock as spurt after spurt erupted. He continued until John’s cries became ones of pain and he thrashed underneath him at the abuse to his oversensitive member.  
  
Sherlock watched as the hard cock lost its firmness, slowly sinking back down to its original size. He frowned at it. He had more things he wanted to try, and it was being uncooperative. Well, he supposed it needed a moment to rest and there were plenty of other things to explore. He looked up at John, who was currently panting on the bed.  
  
Sherlock ran his fingers in the vicious fluid that had landed on his own chest. He tested the texture between his fingers before sniffing it and finally licking it off his fingers. Of course he knew all the things that made up ejaculate, but this was John’s and moments ago it had been a part of him. Something in Sherlock beyond the grasp of intellect found the substance fascinating. Sherlock shifted out from beneath John, leaning over the expanse of his chest to lick away the rest.   
  
With each swipe of his tongue, Sherlock filed away one hundred things that needed further exploration. The feel of John’s chest hair under his tongue and on his lips. The way John was moaning more softly in the aftermath of orgasm. How his skin danced when Sherlock’s tongue found a particularly sensitive area. Sherlock continued his task he had set upon, following it down to John’s navel and then lower.   
  
John gave another jerk when Sherlock pulled his softened cock into his mouth. Sherlock wanted to explore it much further, but the earlier sounds of distress John had made were returning so he let it go. He could always devote another day to exploring that. He licked lower, sucking the loose skin of John’s testicles into his mouth.   
  
Amazing how among all the knowledge that Sherlock had about the body, things that he usually found mundane, didn’t seem to apply where John was concerned. He wanted to see it all. He ran his tongue in the crease of John’s thighs, gathering every drop of ejaculate that had escaped there before sliding his tongue to where the final bit of John’s fluid had come to rest. As Sherlock swept his tongue over that most hidden part of John’s body, Sherlock found another immediate quest for knowledge. He grabbed beneath John’s knees to push them up as far as he was able, but still  he couldn’t get to the spot he wanted effectively enough to be able to observe.   
  
“Untie me, Sherlock.”   
  
“No. You’ll try to escape and I’ve not finished with you yet.”  
  
“I won’t. If you plan to continue…there, then I want to be untied. Besides, my shoulder is hurting me.”  
  
Sherlock considered. He wasn’t entirely sure he could restrain John if he was lying. The few times their arguments had taken a physical turn, Sherlock had been made quite aware of the hidden strength in the small man’s frame.  
  
Despite his genius, Sherlock had no way of seeing inside John’s thoughts at the moment; no way of seeing how John felt underneath the full attention of Sherlock.   
  
John was not so eager to cast off the undivided absorption of Sherlock Holmes. He was gathering quite a lot of his own information from his seemingly helpless position. It was quite a shock to him that Sherlock would ever consider him as he was now doing. He was being watched, observed, studied and recorded inside of that great big brain that rarely found anything worthy of such. Being the sole object of the focused intensity and obsessive quest for information was not something John Watson cared to cast off so quickly. The depth to which he found himself willing to fall into Sherlock’s hands frightened him.  
  
But danger tickled along his spine, along with the desire to see how far Sherlock would fall with him.  
  
“I won’t run Sherlock. You have my word.”   
  
The word of  John Watson was enough for Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
